Ann Ranned Away, Far Far Away

A while back, Dan Dan the Can Can Man (who has abandoned his blog because he’s wallowing in the pits of despair) asked me why I did not care for the Evil Mayonnaise. And if I didn’t partake of the creamy substance, what condiments DID I enjoy? Honey Mustard? Ketchup? Just a smidge of lemon?

The thing is, I don’t think I can ever fully convey how much I hate on the mayo. Back when I was a wee little nugget, probably four or five, my mother made a plate of snack crackers for my digestive enjoyment. Normally these snack crackers came with peanut butter, but on that dark day my snack plate was filled with half the crackers smattered in peanut butter and the other half in a very innocuous looking white substance. Who was I to question a snack plate prepared by my mother? Mothers love you and take care of you, hence why would I have ever prepared myself for the UNRELENTING HEINOUSNESS OF THAT FIRST BITE.

Needless to say, I was disgusted with the mayonic substance even then, before I knew that it was nothing but liquid fat and eggs, before I made the correlation between what goes in HERE and then shows up DOWN THERE, right on my ass. My mother, on the other hand, will pour the substance on her bacon and tomato sandwiches, so much so that every time she takes a bite it kind of squishes out on the side. And every time she takes a bite, I die a little inside because somewhere along the line she’s going to hug me and what if some of that mayonnaise seeps from her pores and attacks me? The travesty.

Normally if I’m out in a public place with my mom I will totally and unashamedly make her check my sandwich for me, just to make sure that the waiter completely understood that NO MAYONNAISE WAS TO BE PRESENT DURING THE MAKING OF MY SANDWICH. At a wedding reception earlier this summer we filled our plates with the reception food and headed to a comfortable couch to talk amongst ourselves, seeing as how I lack social skills and it must totally get annoying having your grown ass daughter follow you around while you make small talk with guests. So we made our way to the back and began picking through the random shrimp sandwiches, cheese rolls and mini desserts when I came across a rye bread mini sandwich that appeared to be cream cheese but just to be on the safe side, I made her take a bite for me. Lo and behold someone had concocted up a swiss cheese and mayonnaise sandwich and just IMAGINE my horror had I bit into it, mistakenly thinking it was cream cheese.

As a final example I submit to you the incident in Atlanta, a mere two weeks ago on a business trip with two other women from my office. One of them was my friend Amanda who joined me for lunch in the office cafeteria. We’d placed our lunch orders first thing that morning, me ordering a roast beef sandwich with cheese and lettuce ONLY. I’d put that bit out to the side of my order, underlining and highlighting the line where I specified NO MAYO.

For whatever reason the “chef” (and I use that word very lightly) decided that I was being snotty about his special sauce and smeared it on my sandwich anyway, but only in the middle so when I lifted up the edge to check it appeared to be white-goop-free.

Nanoseconds after taking that first bite I felt the grotesque substance coating the insides of my mouth. Try as I might I couldn’t convince myself to swallow it, even after chewing with grown-up determination for a solid five seconds. I finally gave up and spat it back out, right into my napkin as discreetly as possible.

And then my dear friend Amanda took the mayonnaise-ridden bread from my sandwich and replaced it with her own dry bread. She even wiped the mayo from the top of my roast beef with her extra napkins, bless her.
So I’ve decided that I’ve added this quality to my Must Have list for Friends: Willing to wipe disgusting mayo from sandwich bread with proven ability to NOT JUDGE ME for behaving like a four year old when that crap comes within five feet of me.